Victor turns and smiles at me – a nice smile, shy and honest. I really like his eyes. They’re a brilliant blue and very kind and gentle, not rapist’s eyes at all. In fact, it was only that black mac which made him seem so sinister. I slow my pace a bit.
“Are you a tourist, too?” I dare.
“Kind of.”
I think he prefers to put the questions himself. “Where are you staying?” he asks, before he’s really answered me.
“The … Tropicana.” Best be careful still. “What about you?”
“Caesars.”
“Caesars Palace?” Now I really am impressed. According to the guide books, Caesars Palace is the one hotel in Vegas which comes anywhere near the Gold Rush, both in opulence and sheer lunatic expense. He must be loaded if he’s staying there, and without Players No. 6 to foot the bill.
“Do you know it, Jan?”
“Well, no, I don’t. But …” I’ve seen the pictures, read about the place. Caesars is as famous as the London Ritz.
“I only come to Vegas for the poker. I’ve just played a big tournament Downtown, but I prefer staying on the Strip. The tourney finished a whole week ago, but Caesars’ Christmas sounded kind of fun, and I’d won a few bucks, so …”
I stop dead in my tracks. “You’re a gambler, a high roller?”
He laughs. “Oh, no. I just like playing poker.”
“But if you play in tournaments and win and …” My voice tails off. Surely poker players don’t look so … so ordinary? In movies, they wear hats – cowboy hats or huge sombreros, or have scars across their faces and narrowed flinty eyes, and puff on fat cigars, and carry guns.
“I like to win – who doesn’t? – but it’s not so much the money, more the game itself. It’s fascinating, poker. It can be thrilling or infuriating or dangerous or boring – sometimes all those things, and more, just in one hand. D’you play at all yourself, Jan?”
I shake my head. Helping Norah with her patience is about the limit of my skills.
“I used to have a weakness for blackjack, but it depends too much on luck – just sheer blind chance. Poker needs skills, quite a few different ones, in fact, which makes it more of a challenge. Yet luck still enters into it, and can make or break anyone. There’s always that element of risk. And …” He grins. “I guess risk is exciting.”
“Gosh,” I say, still staring at him. Have I missed a scar, a hidden holster? “I’ve never met a poker player, never in my life.”
“Well, I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you. I only play for fun. The world-class players are something else entirely. I met them at the tournament. Some of them are real flamboyant characters, but for a lot of them, there’s nothing in their lives beyond the poker table, or some other form of gambling. In the end, nothing really grabs them unless they’re betting heavy money on it – a hundred thousand dollars, say, on just one hole of golf or one Sunday football game.”
“You’re kidding.” I try to imagine a hundred thousand dollars, all the things one could buy and do and be with it; then losing every cent just because the Redskins beat the Rams.
“That’s gospel, Jan. Their world gets so unreal that money means everything and nothing. I saw one player tip a cocktail waitress a thousand bucks, just for bringing him a Pepsi.”
“Wow!” I let out a low whistle.
“Even recreational players can get totally obsessed. Poker’s like a gaol sentence for some of my old friends. They never leave the table, never breathe fresh air or see the daylight, are hardly aware there’s an outside world at all. And ‘friends’ is the wrong word. They don’t have friends, not really. They play for blood. One guy lost so much he was forced to sell his kidney.”
“His kidney? Why?”
“It was a rare one, real valuable, and the only way he could pay his gambling debts. He’d sold everything else he owned – his house, his car, his business – even his wife, according to the rumours. And another guy I knew jumped from a high bridge, smashed himself to pieces because he’d lost a pot. It wasn’t just the money. He couldn’t face the fact he’d lost at all.”
I fumble for my cigarettes. I need a smoke to calm me down. Damn. I haven’t got them, must have left them in the restaurant. “Do you smoke?” I ask.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t, Jan, but how about a drink? We could go to Caesars, if you like, and I could show you round the place – if you’ve got the time, that is.”
Carole, stop. Be careful. All you’ll see of Caesars is Capone’s suite. “I’m sorry, no. I’m worried about my friend. You see, I …”
“Bring her along, Jan. I’d really like to meet her.”
“Him,” I start, then turn it into a cough. I can’t make Norah male. It’s too damn complicated. Already I keep looking round for Jan.
“She’s … not too well at the moment.”
“Gee, I’m sorry. What’s the trouble?”
“Sort of stomach.” I can suddenly see Norah clutching at the waistband of her tracksuit. I’d assumed she was just busting for a pee, not wracked with griping pains and voiding half her gut.
“In fact, I really must get back to her. I only slipped out to buy her some medicine. She’ll wonder where on earth I am.”
I know he thinks I’m lying. Odd that he accepts the lies, disbelieves the truth. He looks not just disappointed, but quite genuinely hurt. Perhaps he’s lonely, too, a single, on his own, forced to spend Christmas in hotels. I’m sure he’s not a gangster and certainly not a homicidal maniac. I’d get different vibes if he was about to split my skull. He seems really rather decent, and certainly not pushy. “If I like”, “If I’ve got the time”. And he’s obviously dead keen, leaning towards me while we walk and hanging on my every word as if they’re made of diamonds and have to be saved from dissolving in thin air. That makes me feel important.
Mind you, we must look pretty weird together – he so smart and me a sodden mess. I’m rather touched by the way he’s tried so hard with his suit and jewels and everything, and those new calf-leather shoes in pigeon grey. It’s his face which lets him down, though. It’s too old for the shoes and even for his eyes which are really vibrant blue – a young man’s eyes. The face looks pale and tired as if it would prefer to retire to some nice quiet English suburb and grow roses or breed dogs, instead of impressing girls in Vegas, or playing tournaments.
I can see him watching me, like a tail-down dog himself, dejected that its precious walk is over. I throw him a small bone. “Look, maybe you can help me. I’ve been searching for a drugstore. That’s how I got lost.”
“There’s one just a block from here. I’ll show you.” Tail wagging now, ears pricked.
“Thanks.”
He takes my arm again to guide me round a puddle which has flooded half the pavement. The drainage in Las Vegas is nowhere near as impressive as the food. I see a woman tutting at us. “Arm in arm and old enough to be her father.” I grin. Perhaps he is a father whose beloved daughter died. Perhaps he’s mourning her, wandering round the lonely streets choked and desolate. I keep hold of his arm, even when we’re safely past the puddle. We’re almost at the drugstore. I don’t want the idyll soiled with Diar-Aid. I’d rather he recalled me as a golden playgirl than as a frowsty shopper rooting through the medicines. I let go his arm, step briskly back.
“Right, I’ll have to say goodbye now.” I shrug his raincoat off, fold it neatly before I hand it back. If I’m Jan, I’m tidy.
He doesn’t take it. “Hey, what about our drink?” His voice sounds almost panicky and a cloud has rolled across his blue-sky eyes. He looks deprived and shamed and hopeless all at once. My Ma could make my father look like that. I weaken, take a deep breath in.
“Maybe … later?” I suggest.
I’ve handed him a diamond, not a damp black mac – one larger than his ring. He’s almost on his knees to me. I feel a heady sense of power. Mistress Janice Dominant. I should have chosen some really dynamic name – Delilah or Sapphira, or even Aphrodite. Jan is fa
r too tame.
“Thanks, Jan. That’ll be just great. Any time you choose. In fact, if you make it after nine, we can have a drink on Cleopatra’s Barge.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, just one of Caesars’ swanky bars – a real Egyptian barge like Cleopatra sailed in – well, a replica, I guess, but with oars and sails and floating on real water. They have a band on board and the boat sways back and forth. We can dance there, if you like, then maybe hit the casinos around midnight. Do you gamble?”
I feel a shiver of excitement. He’ll teach me, teach me how to win. He must have won a packet if he can afford Christmas week at Caesars. All that stuff about playing just for fun could be just a smoke-screen. I mean, he probably thinks I disapprove of gambling and wants to make me like him. I bet he risks fantastic sums of money. He said himself that risk made life exciting. And what about his job? If he’s had all that time off, then perhaps he hasn’t got one, wins enough to live – and live it up. I saw one film where the poker-playing hero needed two whole suitcases just to lug his winnings home. He played three short hours each day, and the rest of his life was lotus-eating – sleeping in till noon, lolling by his swimming-pool until the sun went down, then drinking in exotic bars, or toying with a pound or two of caviare. God! It must be smashing to live like that, never having to bother with footling things like pension schemes or clocking-in, or all that soul-destroying nine to five. My Dad worked nine to six, including Saturdays, and even then he hardly had a bean to spare. In that way, I’m unlike him – a gambler, not a slaver, at least in mind and spirit. It’s just that I haven’t been initiated. (Keno doesn’t count.)
“I’d love to learn,” I say. “The only problem is I don’t think I’m too lucky at the moment.” There’s another problem, actually. I’m underage. You have to be twenty-one in Vegas, not only to gamble, but even to buy a drink. Crazy, isn’t it? In fact, it was just as well that Norah, and not me, was the official competition winner, or they might have made a fuss, especially with all the free champagne. I’m not sure how strict they are, or whether Victor cares a fig or not, but I’d better say I’m twenty-one, just in case he’s paranoid. And I’ll have to dress to look like it. No more dungarees; something more mature.
“What?” I say. Victor’s speaking, but I’m miles away, rethinking my whole image – new hairstyle, older make up.
“I just said luck can change.” He leans forward suddenly. I flinch. I’m still half-expecting a flick-knife or a gun. But all he does is trace that stupid dimple on my chin. His hand feels very gentle. “I’ll pick you up at the Tropicana, shall I?”
“Oh, no, not there,” I say, a bit too quickly. “I’ll meet you at Caesars.” I only hope it’s not too far to walk. My money’s pledged to Lady Luck, not taxi drivers.
“Okay. How about the main hotel reception desk? It’s less crowded there and I don’t want to lose you in the crush. Does 9.30 sound okay?”
“Yes. Fine.”
“See you later, then. You …” he pauses. “Won’t let me down, will you, Jan?”
“No.” I make it cool. I really do have power. This is quite some guy – probably a high roller, despite all his denials, yet I could reduce him to a gibbering wreck, diamonds, tournaments and all, by simply failing to turn up. He’s still left me with the raincoat. I suppose he imagines it will bond us, remind me of our date. I press it firmly into his hands. I may as well enjoy my power – the first time I’ve ever had power – keep him guessing.
“Goodbye, then, Victor.” His whole face brightens when I use his name. I shall have to ration it.
“Bye, Jan. I’m really looking forward to tonight.”
I flash him what I hope is an enigmatic smile, turn into the drugstore. “Victor,” I repeat, once I’m safely on my own.
Yeah, I like the name.
Chapter Ten
Life is tougher, gettin’ rougher,
Prices aren’t the same.
Insure with us.
Be sure with us.
Phoenix is the name.
“Feast your eyes. One fresh egg, bacon and sausage, and your choice of these super sizzlin’ pancakes. The truly special extra special, only at your International House of Pancakes.”
“See Snoopy as he roams the park. You can even shake his paw …”
I wish they wouldn’t go so fast. Everything’s mixed up. I liked the Snoopy, but now there’s fighting. Bombs. The man with the big smile says two hundred people died. I can see them on the screen, lying very still in pools of blood. Some of them are crying. The man’s not crying. He’s smiling now again, telling me to spoil myself.
“Go ahead, indulge. Cut a slice of Sarah Lee’s all-butter cake. There’s nothing like it, is there? Buttery, moist and …”
I shut my eyes. I can’t eat when there’s blood, and that cake is very greasy. They keep begging me to eat. First Shredded Wheat, then Shrimp-Bites, then Bubble Yum, then Jube Jels. Carole told me not to eat, only water and dry toast.
I’ve been to the toilet (number two) nine times since this morning, made four bathrooms smell. I hate that smell. They won’t want me to stay here. This is a very special room for very special people. A doctor’s room, I think. Or maybe Matron’s. I don’t know why we’re in it when we’re only patients. I expect they’ll move us soon. They’ve moved us once already. I don’t mind. I’d feel less worried in a different room, one with fewer things in. Everything is very new here and cost a lot of money. If I spill some water or crumple up a cushion, they’ll probably make me pay.
“A car that brings the road alive. Put the key in, put the top down, let her go …”
He’s driving far too fast. I expect he’ll have a crash. I’ve seen a crash already on TV. One man lost a leg, and they said he ought to use a new shampoo.
My own hair’s gone quite limp. I’d like to wash it, but I mustn’t spoil their bathroom, and Carole said don’t move. I haven’t moved for two hours fifteen minutes. I’m sitting in the bedroom. I don’t like the room downstairs. Everything is red downstairs and there are men without their clothes on watching from the walls. Here, the walls are mirrors. I’m in all the mirrors, looking at myself. I’m not sure which one is me.
Carole’s out. She went to a palace for a boat-ride, but she wouldn’t let me come. I expect she’s angry that I made those toilets smell. The saints don’t smell, not ever. They don’t go number two. That’s why they’re called saints. And the Virgin Mary never had a period, not one in her whole life. She’s the only person in the world who had no germs on her at all. They told us that at St Joseph’s. There was a statue of St Joseph in Reverend Mother’s study, but I only saw his foot. You weren’t allowed to raise your eyes when you spoke to Reverend Mother.
St Joseph feels very far away. He didn’t come to Las Vegas. I shouldn’t have come myself when Sister told me not to. Now I’m being punished. But Carole cried when I said no, and I don’t like her to cry.
“Tell her you’re the greatest with this diamond love-knot ring …”
It’s very loud, that television, but I mustn’t turn it down. Carole said not to touch the set. If I do, I’ll get the gambling lessons. Everybody’s shouting. The man who bought the diamond ring just asked her if she’d marry him, really screamed it out so everyone could hear.
I’d like to go to bed. I’m already in my nightgown. It’s a pink lace one, with frills, stiff and rather scratchy. I always wear pyjamas in the hospital. They’re warmer and don’t itch. They found me an almost new pair at the WRVS bazaar, pale blue with darker cuffs. Two buttons had come off, but they bought a 5p blouse as well, just to get the buttons.
“Free MacSwivel-razor with egg MacMuffin sandwich … Only from MacDonald’s.”
A lot of things are free. They get terribly excited, even when it’s something really small. There was a free transfer in a cornflakes packet, just a sticky label with a tiny picture on, but they sang a hymn to it.
The weather man has said goodnight and gone. He always laugh
s, even when it’s rain. It’s rain again tomorrow. He told us to have our umbrellas ready for the morning. We didn’t bring umbrellas.
I can’t see any weather. Someone came in hours ago and drew all the curtains in all our different rooms. She wasn’t a nurse, though she was wearing a blue uniform. I tried to talk to her, but she only shook her head. She also took the bedspreads off our beds. I expect she thought we’d spoil them. I looked out once, before she drew the curtains, but it was very high and dizzy. I don’t like such big windows. With smaller ones, things can’t get in, things like sun or germs.
We had bars on all the windows at Westham Hall. I had a window just above my bed, a small one with six bars. I gave each bar a name. I wanted Irish names, but I didn’t know any, except my own and Patrick, so I asked the lady who cleaned the dormitories. She was Irish herself – Miss O’Something – I can’t remember now.
Miss O’Something used to scrub us sometimes, when she’d finished scrubbing floors. The bathrooms were cold and the ceilings very high so if anybody shouted, it echoed round the room. She shouted quite a lot.
There weren’t any plugs, so she stuffed dirty socks and dish-rags down the hole, but the water still leaked out. Sometimes she was called away, and you had to sit there naked, with no water left at all. Once, she lost the bath-brush and did me with the brush you clean the toilet with. It was very rough and hurt. I didn’t cry. I just shut my eyes and imagined it was my mother who was washing me, very very gently with white satin hands and soap that smelt of flowers.
We have flower soap here, but I didn’t like to use it, and I left my hands all wet because I was scared to touch the towels. The Beechgrove towels are very stiff and thin. They were white once, long ago, but they’ve been washed and washed to grey. “GOVERNMENT PROPERTY” is stamped across both ends. I don’t know why governments need towels.
Sin City Page 13